


The Days that Followed (The End of the World)

by CatcherOfDreams



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Coulson Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Clint Barton, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Look this is an emotional mess, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Protective Phil Coulson, SHIELD Husbands, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatcherOfDreams/pseuds/CatcherOfDreams
Summary: Clint Barton had survived a lot of terrible things. But eventually every person reaches their breaking point. His just happened to be the death of Phil Coulson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on the events following Loki's invasion. It might be very out of character, but its my first fanfic I've written in 4 years and I just decided to give it a go in University holidays. Hope you like it!

Some days the world spins on, and you are none the wiser to the passage of time. But some days, often very few days, you become intimately aware of the world spinning on when you feel as if it should just hold still.

Clint Barton thought he knew how it felt to watch the world as he knew it cease to exist. The night the police took him away, telling him his drunk father had killed himself and his mother in a car crash, he was four and was sure that the world had ended. The first night Barney lead his lithe, malnourished 11 year old body to the Ringleaders tent, eyes downcast, and told him that clenching made it hurt more, he was sure this was it, the world would stop spinning now, surely. It didn’t, not the first time, or any of the violating times that followed. From then on he decided that the world spins on benevolently, regardless of the horrors experienced.

Or, Clint did believe that, right up until the moment Tony Goddamn Stark opens his mouth at the Shawarma shop to propose a toast to the memory of one Phil Coulson.

“No.” The word leaves his mouth without a conscious thought. More words seem to follow as his body starts to tremble, his eyes move to Natasha for confirmation.

“No, no, no, fuck no.” Suddenly everyone is staring at him except for Nat, she’s staring blankly at her clasped hands with those lines around her eyes that only decades of working together tell him she’s in pain. That’s all the answer he needs, yet his mouth keeps moving, begging, as he shakily stands, tears beginning to fall “please no, God no.”

“Clint?” Tony sounds confused. Of course he’d be confused, they’ve only just met and most of the time the ‘Avengers’ has been a team Clint has been seeing blue and killing SHIELD agents. Not a lot of time to introduce his husband of 10 years.

He’s moving for the door, black encroaching on his vision as the magnitude of what has happened, of what he’s done, begins to hit. Bruce was closest to him around the table, and is on his feet following Clint out the door, the rest of the team following closely. He only makes it 7 steps out the door before collapsing in a crumpled heap, the ruins of the city he destroyed littered before him.

Thankfully, they don’t all crowd him as he kneels in the broken street. Clint is thankful he can’t hear Nat explaining to the others why he’s falling apart on a shattered New York street, but after a minute she appears next to him. She doesn’t say anything, emotions were never her strong point after all, she simply kneels next to him and places her hand on his shoulder.

And Clint, braver than he’d ever been through death and assault and torture and loss, Clint slowly, shakily stands, and begins the trek back to Starks tower with the people who saved the city from him, who somehow don’t blame him, even though they really, really should.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for childhood trauma and sex work

Phil Coulson was the best thing that ever happened to Clint. 

He was 17 at the time, and being a mercenary for hire wasn’t the way he wanted to pay the bills. As much as it sometimes caused an odd aching feeling in his chest, selling his body by the hour to old men with more money than sense was a better way to make money, the way he could sleep better with. And it’s not like he held any reservations about the sex, those were swiftly beaten out of him at age 11 at Carson’s.

He’d just finished a shift, working the seedier streets of New York City had its risks, but also its rewards. He reminded himself that he hadn’t had to put an arrow in someone’s skull for the cash, despite being very, very good at putting arrows in skulls for cash. It was his choice to sell his body, and the injuries and fucking awful pain that came with it, that was his choice too. But he decided to ignore his probably fucked up moral code and continue on his way to the shitty, one room apartment he rented in the Meatpacking district.

Dressed in all black with his hood up against the late December snow, he blended in with the late night shuffling crowd. His body ached, and as he moved he could feel the residue from the last creep beginning to soak the back of his pants. Could be blood too. He mumbled curses but couldn’t find it in him to be too angry at the situation, as the guy had promised and delivered on the hundred dollar tip if he could forgo the condom. As one of Clint’s more civil regulars, and in light of rent being due, Clint agreed. But fuck this, he thought as he walked fast as his bruised body would allow.

Suddenly though, he gets the prickling feeling that he’s being followed. Unsure if it’s one of his regulars, or someone he’s managed to piss of for being a smart mouthed sharp shooter for hire, he ducks down the nearest alley and in a flash scales the wall to rest, unseen, inside a darkened stairwell.

Who enters the alley seconds later fits neither profile Clint was expecting.

A young man, dressed in an expensive suit with the brightest blue/grey eyes Clint has seen in a long time enters the alleyway, and immediately knows to look up to find him. Well, he thinks, this guy definitely fits the profile of someone who’s after him for his arrow-in-skull skills more than his body… 

“Clint Barton, Hawkeye”. His name rings out through the dark. The lack of inflection on the man’s words throw Clint slightly, and, as he takes out a note pad to make a note, he’s seeming more and more harmless by the second. However, with Clint unarmed (bar the short knife in his boot) and badly bruised, he remains wary of anyone who knows his name.

The stranger continues to address the falling snowflakes. “My name is Phil Coulson and I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and we’d like to offer you a job.”

A job? Clint cannot decide what the best course of action is. He doesn’t want to take a job for some shady Homeland Security organisation, surely they’ve got snipers for that sort of thing anyways? And if they mean a real job, like employment and salary, they must be barking mad.

The kind blue eyes continue searching the darkness for him. Clint doesn’t know why, but he decides he’s going to meet this guy face to face. If he’s wrong, he could easily overpower just one man in a fancy suit with a goddamn notebook, no problem.

He drops from the ledge and lands gracefully, years of circus performing lending itself to his movements, but the instant jolt of pain causing him to inhale sharply. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but the man he’s facing with the sharp blue eyes seems to notice everything, and a slight frown appears on his otherwise expressionless face.

“Clint?”

“How the fuck do you know my name?” He counters, as his vision suspiciously starts to flicker. He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms, fighting to stay conscious.

“Clint!” The stranger seems very concerned, and he feels he should be more concerned too. Fainting in front of a potentially very dangerous stranger is an incredibly bad idea, but it seems like it’s happening anyway because he’s losing the fight. And for some (probably bad) reason he trusts this stranger with the worried but kind blue eyes to not murder him whilst he’s defenceless. Then again, maybe he’s lost more blood than he thought?

//

Clint wakes up 24 hours later in a SHIELD hospital bed, and manages to have a panic attack mere seconds after opening his eyes. To add to the surrealness of the situation, Mr Blue Eyes (Phil?) is sitting in an uncomfortable visitor’s chair, trying to get Clint’s attention. 

“Clint? Clint I need you to breathe or you’ll pass out again. You’re in hospital, and no one is going to hurt you. All your belongings, apart from your knife, are there” and he points at the pile of fabric on the ground in the corner, “and I’m here to help you, okay? So please breathe, slowly in and out”

He tries to obey, listening to the calm and assured voice reminding him how to breathe. In and out. Eventually, when he feels like he might not pass out, he manages a shaky smile and says the first thing that comes to mind, “I’ve never been in a hospital before”.

Phil seems surprised for a moment, eyes darting to the multitude of scars covering his arms, before returning to his neutral mask. Clint realises he’s probably given away something from his past, but the fact that he is not dead and is actually receiving medical help point towards this guy wanting him alive in the near future.

“Well that explains your panic”, Phil said with a tight smile. “I’m not sure you’d remember, but my name is Phil Coulson and you’re currently in a SHIELD hospital, you’ve been unconscious for 24 hours”.

Clint jolts at that information. He hates being unconscious for even a minute, knowing all sorts of invasive things can happen when a person is not on guard. He’s only 17 but he knows that better than most.

Coulson seems to read his mind though, “Nothing untoward happened to you during those 24 hours, I promise. We cleaned and stitched your wounds where necessary, and continue to monitor your internal bleeding, though we currently believe that issue has been resolved.” 

He’s immediately wary, his internal bleeding wasn’t incurred on a hit, but must’ve been from one (or many) of his clients the night before… 

Phil seemed genuinely caring as he spoke quickly, preventing Clint from jumping to too many conclusions, “You aren’t the first person we’ve picked up in that state Clint, you won’t be judged around here for how you choose to make your money. Your STD check came back clean, and you should fully heal.”

He suddenly seemed hesitant, which was an odd look for the man who exuded confidence as easily as breathing, “And we, SHIELD, would still like to offer you a job. Housing, all meals, a regular salary, and access to medical care are all provided.”

Clint is thoroughly confused, “Why the fuck would you offer me a job?”

“We know what you can do, you’re the best marksman we have ever seen. We also know you haven’t been taking many hits recently, preferring to make money other ways. I know what a man looks like when he’s done running, done killing, Clint, and we want you to work with us instead.”

He laughs, harsh and sounding too fragile even to his own ears, “Are you really saying your organisation doesn’t kill people? Because you’re right in that respect, I am done running and so very fucking done killing, but wrong in one single fact, which seeing the competence of this bizarre super spy organisation, honestly surprises me."

Phil raises one eyebrow a few millimetres, and Clint tries not to grin at the fact. “I’m not a man, I’m a kid. Just a dumb fucking carney kid with good aim.”

Clint does grin now, because he can see that Coulson didn’t expect that. He thought he was speaking to an adult, not a circus freak kid from Iowa with great aim and nothing to lose. He collects his thoughts before speaking though,

“I’m not saying SHIELD doesn’t kill people, but our aim is to resolve situations before people die. We aren’t the bad guys Clint, and we want to hire you regardless of your age.”  
Clint wasn’t expecting that. He was expecting to get handed over to the cops for being an underage prostitute who murdered people on the side, he was definitely not expecting a job offer and those stupidly kind blue eyes to remain judgeless.

“Just.” He pauses, overwhelmed and confused and a little emotional that someone would want him, “Just, can you give me some time to think this over?” 

“Of course” Coulson smiles slightly, just a quick twitch of the lips, before standing to leave. Clint feels a bolt of panic he really shouldn’t feel, seeing as he doesn’t know a thing about the man.

“I’ll be back for you soon” He says as he strolls towards the open door, “please stay in the bed, we really don’t have time to chase you through medical. If you want to leave, hit the bell and tell the nurses and they’ll help you, no need for a daringly stupid escape, okay?”

He seems to notice Clint’s anxiety though, as he stops once he reaches the door. “Don’t worry Barton, I’m not leaving you, I’ll be back soon, promise.”

And oddly enough, Clint believes him?

And oddly enough Coulson does come back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self harm and mental illness

Clint sat in the corner of their apartment’s tiny bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the bath. How he’d ended up there he really couldn’t recall, but he remembered walking into the bedroom he’d shared with Phil for the past 7 years, ever since they decided to move closer to headquarters together.

It had been 2 days. 2 days of psych appointments and MRIs and EEGs and constant observation to determine whether Loki had fully left his brain. He’d finally been released from medical with the information that Loki was gone without a trace left behind.

He personally felt like there was much, much more than a trace left behind. But no one asked him, and the psych department were banging on about PTSD again, so he put it down to that and tried to ignore the blue-tinged nightmares he couldn’t wake up from.

But he remembered walking into their apartment, their bedroom, for the first time since Loki. He remembers being hyper aware of every detail; of Phil’s folded pyjamas lying next to the crumpled pile that were his, of their wardrobe left open to Phil’s side, displaying his collection of expensive suits and his secret love for Captain America shirts (he owned six, Clint loved every single one), and Phil’s aftershave, left open in their haste to get out the door, leaving the whole room smelling like Phil.

And hence Clint is sitting in the corner of their bathroom, hands trembling and fighting back tears, because Phil is dead and it’s his fucking fault and it’s too much.

Clint killed the best thing in his life, he lead Loki right to them, his planning, his strategies and expertise ended so many lives, including the life of the only person he’d ever loved.

//

Phil had taken him under his wing at seventeen. He hadn’t minded that the best marksman in the world was a mouthy, stupid, damaged kid. He hadn’t ever looked at Clint with pity for his past, or for the way he found Clint the day they met. He’d held Clint during nightmares and panic attacks, and patiently explained to him again and again he never blamed Clint for his mental illnesses.

Phil was kind and strong and brave, and so funny if he let you close enough to see. He was the first one who believed in Clint, the one who taught him everything he knew and more, and the one to show him how it felt to be really truly loved.

He was the one who quietly talked him down off the balcony ledge the night after a mission gone wrong, when he was 19 and struggling and couldn’t see a way out of the darkness.

The way out of the darkness was always Phil. 

He never left Clint, not when he was a broken 17 year old, a suicidal 19 year old, or a terrified 21 year old realising he’d fallen in love with the one man who’d given him everything. They’d gotten married five years later, and Phil started his vow with the words ‘I promised you when we first met I wouldn’t leave you. Today I get to make that official, by marrying you, the love of my life.” 

And never left Clint, even when he was a fucking idiot and sliced up his wrist one night, age 23, trying to make the past hurt just a little less for one minute. His sharpened knife severed veins and arteries alike, and he nearly bleed out in a tiny room in the SHIELD barracks.

He’d woken up after 3 reconstructive surgeries and more litres of blood than he thought one body could need. He glanced to the right, where Phil always sat during his (numerous) stints in medical. He looked exhausted: unshaven and skin decidedly grey, wearing the same suit Clint swears he was in however many days ago he was last awake and made the stupid choice involving his sharpest knife. 

Phil awakens minutes after Clint, and too many emotions flit quickly across his face for Clint to name. He shudders and buries his face in his hands, managing to choke out words which to this day still cause Clint pain.

“Please, don’t ever do that again”, he’d said from behind shaking hands, tears making their way through his closed fingers. Clint wanted to leap out of bed, to draw him close, to apologise for being himself and his past and his dumb brain.

He’d started trembling, the panic attack welling up from deep in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but sob, until Phil was there, hand steady on his back, gently moving his injured arm so he could sit next to him on the hospital bed. Despite his clear exhaustion and every unnameable emotion behind Phil’s eyes, he whispered calmly to Clint, reminding him how to breathe and that he was loved and it would be okay. Clint didn’t deserve it, but Phil gave it willingly, and it meant the world to Clint.

Phil never forgave him for that day, age 23, when he nearly lost Clint. On the anniversary each year he’d get this pinched look around his eyes, and he’d never schedule a full day’s work, needing to come home early to their safe apartment and lay in bed, holding Clint a little tighter than usual and avoiding looking at his left arm baring the grisly ten inch scar.

Phil never forgave him for nearly dying, but he was there every single step of the way back, from the hundreds of hours of psych to the agonising months of physical therapy, restrengthening his arm and relearning how to use his bow. He never blamed Clint for the demons his past had left him with, but helped him to overcome them, despite the challenges and setbacks it presented.

 

And now, after owing Phil his life a hundred times over, he was responsible for taking Phil’s life. He could barely breathe, and this time he knew he would never feel the strong, broad hand on his back or hear the voice of his husband reminding him to breathe and helping him find his way back from the dark. 

He had killed Phil Coulson 2 days ago.

And sitting in the corner of their bathroom, the smell of Phil’s aftershave still surrounding him, he really didn’t think he could survive that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter sorry, longer chapter to follow!

Phil Coulson was buried 5 days after he died, and Clint attended the funeral with dark sunglasses on. He had barely slept since Loki, whenever he managed a few hours he either dreamed of Phil dying or was trapped in blue tinged dreams he couldn’t wake from.

Nat had been a big help, after she was told he’d left medical she found him in the bathroom of their (no, his) apartment. She’d coaxed him out, put him to bed, and laid with him as he alternated between sleeping and screaming and sobbing. Sometimes all three.

She wasn’t good with emotions, but had been getting better after she began her relationship with Bruce. She didn’t hover over him in his grief, and he appreciated that more than he could say.

Three days after Clint killed Phil, he got black out drunk and passed out on the living room rug that he hated but Phil had loved. Four days after he found he couldn’t go back into their bedroom, and spent the day on the couch, almost unaware of time passing, numb and empty and gone.

The fifth day he asked Natasha to go into their bedroom and get his black suit. She didn’t ask why he couldn’t do it himself, and pretended she didn’t see him begin to cry when she handed him the gold and purple cufflinks that Clint bought Phil for his 40th birthday.

They buried his husband of 10 years, and it rained the whole day. He liked to think it was the world mourning the loss of his world, but it was just clouds and weather patterns and the world spinning on when it should have ended 5 days ago.

He doesn’t recall much of the service, tears tracking down his face as he lets the words of grief wash over him. He killed Phil, and the Avengers and SHIELD agents and even goddamn Nick Fury are here treating him like he wasn’t responsible for the death.

He was. He gave Loki everything. Every thought and memory and emotion. And he thought it would be okay, because Loki would kill him when his usefulness had expired. But instead Loki killed Phil, because of him.

The rain didn’t stop. Neither did his tears. He wasn’t sure which would endure longer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter! Warnings for suicidal thoughts/actions.

Bruce Banner could spot a suicidal person from a hundred meters away. 

He always theorised it was the old saying ‘it takes one to know one’, as he had been suicidal more years that he cared to tally up. But he had the disadvantage of knowing that the next time he tried to put a bullet in his skull other innocent people could die, probably in a horrible, gruesome way.

So he had to live every day suicidal, never acting on it, and working to one day reverse the changes to his biology that make him the Invincible Hulk, so he can finally put a bullet in his brain and make it stick.

Yes it sounded bad, but see being a giant murderous monster did that to a person. He lived with it, mainly through a lot of tea and endeavouring to make his time on this Earth worthwhile by advancing science, which was helped a lot by Stark, weirdly enough.

But anyways, Bruce could spot a suicidal person from a hundred meters away. And right now, less than ten meters away on the communal couch in Stark Tower, was someone fitting the bill perfectly.

Clint Barton.

It had been 7 days since Clint had lost his husband of ten years, and yeah Bruce knew that was probably enough to make anyone think about exiting the ride early. But something about Clint gave him pause. Bruce knew grief, he knew that it was unbearable for the first little while, but once someone made it through that horrific time his warning lights for suicide would slowly diminish and they’d be okay.

So it didn’t surprise him, Clint being only 7 days out and Bruce’s warning lights blaring brightly at him. But what did surprise him was the perfect level of stability Barton was exuding. It was an act, but a really unbelievably good one, because he was balancing the correct levels of fragility with brokenness with okay-ness. And the team and SHIELD and everyone seemed to be buying it, because the idiot wasn’t on suicide watch or lockdown in psych, he was out here eating a sandwich on the couch with Steve and Tony like he wasn’t falling to pieces.

Bruce finished making his cup of tea in the kitchen, and with one last glance at the couches left the room. As he entered the elevator, instructing Jarvis to take him to his labs, he made a choice and told the AI to hold the lift.

“Are you in need of assistance, Dr Banner? Jarvis asked politely, and Bruce tried to ignore the probable reference to his giant green problem.

“I’m fine Jarvis, but I need you to do something for me. When Clint leaves the communal area and makes his way to be somewhere alone, please can you inform me via text of his location. I need to talk to him in private, it’s very important.” 

“Very good, Dr Banner. If that is all, are you inclined to continue to your lab?”

Bruce nods, thinking carefully about what to say. He knows grief, he has a vague idea of Clint’s past thanks to SHIELD rumours, and knows Clint needs help. He’s unsure he is the best choice to provide it, but he won’t sit by if no one else is seemingly noticing the signs.

 

Clint finds himself gravitating to the stairwell after talking to Steve and Tony. The stairs, with the right codes, give access to the rooftop of Stark Tower. And everyone knows Clint has always seen better from a distance. 

He stands for a moment, staring at the marks left on the roof from the device Loki used to open up the alien portal that fucked up New York and nearly killed Stark. He slowly walks around them to stand on the edge of the roof, right hand gravitating to his left forearm to feel the mangled scar left from what he thought was the worst day of his life.  
He continues to look at the scar as he steps up on to the rail, years with the circus leaving him steady and surefooted. He looks out over the city, pieces of broken buildings and corpses of alien creatures littering the streets.

He closes his eyes for a moment, losing himself in what Phil would say if he could see him right now.

“Please don’t jump” a steady voice rings out from directly behind him, as a firm hand grasps his shirt from where it was fluttering in the wind. 

Clint doesn’t startle, never for a moment losing his footing. The hand lets go, surprising him slightly, before he realises it was there to prevent accidental falling, not to take his choice away from him. He’s somehow grateful for that, as he replies quietly,

“Hey Bruce”

“Please don’t jump” is the only reply he gets, and he turns his head to see Banner standing close by on his left, looking out over the city.

“I know you’re aware I’m not the best person for this, everyone around here knows I put a gun in my mouth. It wasn’t the first time I’d tried it either, but the Hulk let me know it’d be the last time.”

He smiled grimly, continuing, “I couldn’t bear to try it again and risk any civilian lives, see”

“I wasn’t planning on jumping” Clint lied, as he looked out over the skyline, balancing on the top rung of the balustrade. He hadn’t decided on jumping or not, but honestly it wasn’t a bad sounding plan to him. 

“Okay. Please can you come down then?” Bruce asks, calm and controlled and everything Clint is not.

“I killed him” Clint blurts, looking down at his feet and the street below. 

“Loki killed him.” Clint laughs darkly “Same thing”.

Silence stretches out between them for a moment.

“I don’t want to take your choice away from you Clint, but right now in this moment I don’t think you can make your choice rationally. And I’m sorry, but if you go over the ledge right now the Hulk is going to catch you, I can promise you that.” Bruce continues to not look at him, and Clint cannot find it in him to be properly angry with the man.

“Fuck it” He sighs, as he gracefully drops down from the railing onto Starks roof. He wasn’t sure about his decision to jump anyways, and he wasn’t going to do it in front of Bruce, even before he brought out the Hulk threat.

“You know Banner that’s a fucking low blow” he mutters, knowing Bruce can hear him. He turns to look at the man, still rooted to the spot to the left of where Clint was balancing, and is highly concerned to find him trembling. The last thing they need is a Hulk appearance on the rooftop right now.

Turns out Bruce is hyperventilating, but not in the way that suggests he’s about to turn green. He finally looks at Clint and says, “Jesus Clint you scared the shit out of me.”

Clint has the good graces to feel ashamed of scaring his teammate and possibly friend. He wasn’t really going to jump, was he?

He starts to breathe too quickly alongside Bruce, which seems to shake Bruce out of whatever thoughts he was having. He wrapped his arms around Clint as he began to sob, sinking to the ground next to the marks left by Loki’s portal machine. “Fuck Barton, I knew it was bad, I didn’t know it was this desperate.”

 

Clint just cried harder; brutal, tearing sobs ripped out of him as he mourned the loss of his husband and stability and partner in crime and best friend.

It was so far from okay, but Bruce patiently held him as he sobbed and clasped at his left forearm, offering no meaningless platitudes and being exactly what Clint needed in that moment.

A kindred spirit in the suicidal persons club, just trying their best to survive


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self harm. Clint is having a bad time.

Bruce didn’t rat him out to SHIELD psych or the other Avengers.

He didn’t know how to thank him for that. Nat kept a closer eye on him though, and Bruce came to see him at least once a day. He’d moved into Stark tower after he couldn’t even manage to open the front door of their apartment, knowing Phil would never be on the other side of it.

Nine days after he killed the love of his life he took his favourite hunting knife to his left arm; angry at himself and the world and that the ten inch scar running the length of his left forearm would forever remind him of Phil.

He didn’t make the same mistakes as he did years ago, he didn’t dig deep enough to sever muscle or veins or arteries. And by the time a medical team arrived, no doubt called by Jarvis, his left arm was a mess of deep (but importantly, not deadly) wounds.

Stark arrived a minute after the medical team, an uncharacteristically concerned look on his face. Clint wasn’t listening as he instructed the team to clean, stitch and bandage on site, and decline all attempts to take him to a hospital. Natasha heard though, as she’d arrived moments after Stark, and silently agreed that a hospital would be no place for the archer, who could easily escape and pose harm to himself. 

Natasha sat down next to Clint on the bathroom floor, mindless of the blood soaking her clothes. It was not the first time Clint’s blood had spilled on her, though it was the first time outside of a mission. She tried not to dwell on it.

Clint’s mind was blank, concentrating on the push-pull of the stitches in his arm. Nat had asked if he wanted to talk about what was going on, and he shook his head quickly. The thought of telling someone why scaring him.

He was booked in for daily psych sessions, instead of weekly. Tony apologised. Nat silently stayed close to him - comforting him the best way she knew.

 

Meeting Bruce in the kitchen the next morning was painful, as he glanced quickly at his bandaged arm, before catching himself and looking away. Clint began making his coffee without a word, and Bruce grabbed his tea, looking at the mug instead of him as he said, “I’m glad you are here today Clint” before leaving the room.

Clint watched him walk towards the elevator, unsure if he echoed the man’s sentiment. 

It’d been ten days since he’d heard Phil’s voice, and even longer since he’d hugged him or slept beside him or told him that he loved him.

It wasn’t getting easier, it was getting harder the longer he lived past the day Phil stopped living.

And it shouldn’t surprise him, but it does, because his parent died and he lived in an orphanage before living in a circus before becoming a bow for hire, he is used to living without things he needs. He’s used to loss and pain and heartbreak and emptiness, he’d lived so many godawful years of it.

But he wasn’t used to having years of feeling loved, feeling whole and secure and safe. And to have that ripped away from him was unbearable.

And despite what psych are trying to convince him, it was his fucking fault.

His plans, his strategies, and his love for Phil killed him. It’s his goddamn fault, and it nearly suffocates him knowing that.

 

Clint finally makes a call he hadn’t thought he would make after saying his vows ten years ago.

He makes the call to disregard the promise he made Phil, quietly and in private on their honeymoon, to never try to kill himself again.

Phil had swiftly moved to sit on the side of the bed, leaving Clint lying alone under the warm covers. After a moment he realises Phil’s back is trembling, silent sobs wracking his body. Clint races to sit beside him, wrapping his arms around his husbands shaking form. “I’m sorry” Clint had whispered, face pressed against Phil’s shoulder.

Phil sniffled (adorably, Clint had thought), and said, “God Clint don’t be sorry, those are the best words I’ve ever heard. I love you so much.” And Phil knew Clint’s problems wouldn’t disappear overnight, but the quiet promise in their darkened honeymoon suite meant the whole world to him.

Clint kissed him, pulling him down back onto the bed. Phil kissed him with pure joy and relief and with a lightness only borne from letting go of old stress. Clint didn’t know until then that Phil had needed that promise, but he was so glad he’d chosen to make it. Knowing Phil would always be there waiting for him made a potentially burdensome promise (hey, Clint never claimed to be stable) easy to keep. He’d never leave Phil, as Phil would never leave him.

 

Clint resolutely decides that he’s going to break his promise.

A promise to a man he murdered.

It’s the easiest choice he’s made in the last ten days.


	7. Chapter 7

Nick Fury is packing up his office for the night. It’s nearing midnight and he is exhausted and nearing the end of his patience. 

So to be punched in the face, by Tony Stark no less, leaves him feeling pretty fucking angry.

“You FUCKING ASSHOLE” Tony shouts as he lines up for round two. Nick easily blocks the punch and shoves Stark across his office. The billionaire stands there, rage obvious in every line of his body, as he stares him down.

“When were you going to tell him?” Quiet and deadly.

“Tell who?”

“When were you going to tell Barton that his HUSBAND IS FUCKING ALIVE” Stark begins to move on him again, and Fury briefly admires the man, it takes a lot of balls to stand up to him, as all of SHIELD and most of the world in general know.

Fury shoves him back again and takes a seat in his chair. Stark isn’t above punching someone whilst they’re seated, but he generally prefers a fairer fight. He predicted right, as Tony slumps in the chair across the desk from him, and wipes an unsteady hand over his eyes.

“When the fuck were you going to tell Barton? Because right now I’ve got a fucking suicidal assassin with a shitty past that rivals any I’ve ever heard, and trust me I’ve heard a few, who adamantly believes he killed his husband whilst brainwashed and is unsurprisingly a mess over it. And you’re sitting here, with the ability to, hell, probably SAVE the man’s life, and you’re just going to keep that under wraps. When are you planning on telling him, huh? Before or after he’s ten feet underground?”

“That’s enough Stark. Barton has always been a mess.”

Tony interrupts, “Yeah but you’ve got a solution to fix that! Just bring him in to level 14 and let him see Phil Coulson, alive and breathing, and this will all disappear. It’s fucking cruel not to let him know!”

Fury sighs, he suspected the tech experts he’d hired wouldn’t be enough to keep Stark’s bugs out of his system. And now it was going to compromise the whole plan he had for Phil post recovery, involving keeping his identity secret and leading his own team of agents.

He stared down Stark, knowing that he wouldn’t keep the knowledge of Phil’s survival secret for very long, he didn’t have a lot of time to change plans.

“What do you know, Stark?”

Tony always seemed more comfortable talking, “I know that YOU lied, you held a funeral for a living agent, and you let his husband suffer. I know Phil woke up 5 days ago, and for some reason you weren’t going to let any of us know, so as the saying goes, drastic times call for drastic measures” he says as he gestures at the bruising beginning to appear under Fury’s eye.

“Have you told the Avengers?” Fury knew he hasn’t yet, as he hasn’t gotten a call to say Coulson’s room has been infiltrated.

“No. I figured I’d hear your side first before I broke it to them. And from what I’m hearing, your side is bullshit, so if you’ll excuse me, I have some news to give to my team and an assassin who will need an extraordinary amount of psych help after this.” Tony strode towards the door, happy he’d gotten at least one good punch in without losing his hand, or worse…

“There is a lot going on here you don’t understand, Stark” Fury said, the edge of menace underlying his words almost worked on Tony, but he continued regardless.

“Look that may be, Director. But what I do understand is that this is ethically fundamentally absolutely wrong, and there’s no other way to swing it. So I’m going to go now, and hope that whatever it is that I don’t understand won’t hurt us half as much as Phil’s death is hurting Barton. Good day, Director”

Tony waltzed out of his office and down the corridor, calling for his car back to Stark Tower. Behind him Fury began the dark walk down to level 14, trying to figure out how to tell Phil that he lied, that Clint WAS alive, and Loki didn’t kill him…

Despite the exhaustion of the past day, getting punched by Stark, and the late hour, Fury suspected tomorrow would be at least ten times worse. If everyone made it out mostly unharmed, it’d be a miracle.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for suicide and self harm.

It’s 3am, and Clint cannot sleep.

If he has one more blue-tinged nightmare he’s pretty sure he’ll lose it. Not in a Loki way, more in a complete mental breakdown kind of way.

Actually, looking at his bandaged left arm, he might already be there?

They don’t have anyone on suicide watch due to an emergency in Canada involving a couple of Frost Giants, or something to that effect. Clint wasn’t listening, but SHIELD agents and all the Avengers, bar Tony who was oddly absent and Bruce who wasn’t required, assembled to protect the Canadians. 

They reinforced that Jarvis was on suicide watch, and he felt pretty damn dehumanised to just be left behind with a robot butler making sure he didn’t kill himself whilst they were away. He’s a goddamn grown man, an assassin and weapons master, he’s pretty sure he’s more than what they’re reducing him to. 

Or maybe he’s not, maybe he lost the right to be a person, to be skilled and proud of those skills, the moment he helped Loki kill Phil. 

Whatever.

He’s made his fucking choice. And sure it might support their stupid theory that he’s worthless and nothing and needs an AI babysitter. But that doesn’t really matter because he’ll be dead like he deserves and his past won’t matter and he won’t have to continue living when every minute passing reminds him of Phil.

It’s stupid, sure. He’s nearly a 40 year old man, acting like a child, choosing the selfish way out because he doesn’t want to live with the pain any more. Clint knows it’s stupid, selfish, fucking awful, but he’s doing it anyway because he spent his whole life trying to help people, trying to be better, trying to stop the pain, and it’s just lead to more agony than he ever imagined existed.

He’s done. It’s 3am, and he’s hacked into Jarvis to program his life sign sensors to display stable readings until midmorning, when most of the Avengers will be out of the tower and hopefully other staff will find him (not Nat, anyone but Nat).

He isn’t as dumb as people might believe, he enjoys perpetuating a belief that he’s still just an uneducated circus hick. Really, he couldn’t do the jobs that he does without a high level of education and advanced skills in wide ranges of subjects, from technology to languages to hand-to-hand combat.

Hacking Jarvis isn’t too difficult, but he feels guilty for it. He knows they’re trusting the supercomputer to keep him safe. And he knows he isn’t the first one in the world to have felt grief and loss and despair like this. But Clint Barton has lived a life filled with pain, with one amazing reprieve, before he destroyed that reprieve forever.

He is done. He doesn’t need a note, they’ll all know why, and know he is sorry.

He removes the knife he secreted away in the vent system, hidden so well not even Jarvis could find it on his scans when they swept for weapons to remove to ensure Clint’s safety.

He’d done it before, by accident, and Phil had saved him. This time it’s on purpose, and he won’t be saved.

He’s almost mad that Loki is going to win, to destroy him too, but what’s one more life in a city of dead people who he helped kill or directly killed.

The knife hurts as it meets his already mangled left arm, but not as much as his chest has hurt these past eleven days.

His last thought is I’m sorry Phil.

Clint hopes Phil knows that.

 

//

 

Phil doesn’t know it.

Because right now he is awake, laying in a hospital bed on level 14 in SHIELD medical, angrier than he has ever been in his entire fucking life.

“YOU ARE TELLING ME HE IS ALIVE?!” He shouts, ignoring the pain that flares from his chest wound. He’s breathing heavily, and debating attempting to move just to punch Nick in his lying face.

He doesn’t, half because he cannot move due to his wound, and half because the bruising under Nick’s eye suggests someone has already done his job for him. He’s grateful to whoever the ballsy bastard is who managed to punch the Director of SHIELD in the face. 

Nick does have the heart to look remorseful, but it isn’t coming close to cutting it for Phil. “Look Phil, we didn’t know for a while whether you were even going to make it. Then with the World Security Council issues and the Avengers actively avenging your death, we decided it might be better for the whole situation for you to stay dead, logistically.”

Phil glares at Fury for several seconds, before growling, “You let me believe for FIVE DAYS that my husband was dead. You let me mourn him. Yo-.”

A moment passed, and Phil’s anger evaporated, replaced immediately by terror.

“Nick. Tell me he knows I’m alive.”

Fury didn’t flinch, knowing what was coming. Somehow he probably deserved it, even if he was just doing what had to be done.

“He doesn’t know you’re alive.”

“Oh god” Coulson is shaking in earnest now, not from the anger of earlier, but it suddenly hits him that Clint has been alone for 11 days after being brainwashed to murder by Loki.

He knows his husband, he loves him more than anything and has helped him overcome so much darkness from his past.

He’s immediately terrified, because as he turns the facts over in his head, he’s unsure Clint has the stability post-fucking-brainwashing, to survive his death…

“Nick I swear to god you find him and bring him to me right now. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, bring Clint to me, whatever it takes.”

Fury watches his oldest friend make the connections he knew he would, and realise Barton must be a complete wreck right now. He’s right, and he’s glad he gets out of Phil’s room alive, knowing the man knows at least 12 ways to kill him without leaving his bed. He owes his friend this though, if his plans have been disrupted then he’s going to find the mess Phil calls a husband.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter, hope you're enjoying it!

Bruce Banner has no control over it, but sometimes, in situations of high stress, he can channel some of the Hulk’s strength into his human limbs. Often leading to consequences, like accidently bringing down an entire wall when he just meant to punch it with human strength in frustration. Many years from today he will be thankful for the ability, and how it saved his teammate and friend.

It all started when he looked at a few of the 15 minutely updates that Jarvis was sending to his phone, detailing Clint’s vital signs. Bruce knew it was just as invasive as having someone sitting and watching you 24/7, but at least this way Clint has the illusion of privacy, if he doesn’t think too hard about Stark’s AI.

See he’s a doctor of science, but even he knows a person’s vital signs change, second to second, minute to minute. Human bodies are constantly adapting, with heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, respiration rates, constantly changing.

So when Clint’s statistics stay identical for 2 15 minutely checks, he becomes wary. When Jarvis updates the same statistics a third time, he is out rightly suspicious of foul play, but Jarvis confirms that they are correct. He changes the parameters to five-minutely checks, and watches his phone.

*Ping* the first check comes through, identical to the previous.

He begins walking towards the elevator, phone in hand, heading towards Clint’s room. He stops before he reaches the door, torn, but returns to the lab to lug the heavy but well equipped medical supplies kit behind him. He supposes if he doesn’t need it then he can just leave it outside Clint’s room and one of the bots can return it.

*Ping* another vital signs update, the fifth identical one. Bruce knows something is wrong, and before he really knows it he’s trying to break down Barton’s door after the archer continued to not answer his shouts.

Jarvis should be able to open the door, but an override deadlock was preventing it. Bruce was really panicking now, and he continued to bang on the door to no avail. He rang Tony as he kicked the door, shouting as soon as the line connected, “Stark, Clint is locked in his room and not responding to me.” He punctuates every other word with a kick to the door.

Before Tony can answer, the distinctive smell of blood wafts through the hallway ventilation system, and Bruce’s heartrate spikes dangerously. He punches the door, and half the wall is blasted inwards with his strength leeched from the Hulk.

He doesn’t think, dropping the phone, not hearing a word Tony is saying on the other end, and grabs the med kit and hurries. The debris of the wall covers most of the hallway, and he takes the first right into Clint’s bedroom, acting on a hunch.

He takes half a second to pause, get the Hulk under control, before launching himself at Barton’s cold, pale body, putting reasonable pressure on the gently oozing wound, trying to keep just a little bit of blood left in his body.

He found a pulse, weak and thready, and took stock of the sheer volume of blood covering the bed as he set up a saline IV. It was the best he could do until he could get some blood into Barton.

God he hoped Stark and a medical team weren’t far away.


End file.
